


toy soldiers

by ScreechTheMighty



Series: hammer of the gods / will drive our ships to new lands [2]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games), God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, Gen, Post Apex Season 6, Post God of War (2018), Rated for swearing, Yes Ashwin is here again shut up, no beta reader we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreechTheMighty/pseuds/ScreechTheMighty
Summary: He's met a great many people in the many lifetimes he's lived. But the arena and its inhabitants are something new, even to him.(A God of War/Apex Legends fusion because I just beat God of War recently and I'm still emo.)
Series: hammer of the gods / will drive our ships to new lands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979216
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	toy soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!
> 
> 1) I'm going with the "the Norse pantheon is just hyper-advanced aliens and magic is just hyper-advanced science" model as seen in the MCU and Stargate. This is going to affect the God of War bits more than the Apex bits. Except some canon divergence.  
> 2) Since we don't know how GoW: Ragnarok is going down, I'm trying to keep things vague, but I'm ASSUMING Odin is going to bite it at some point, so...yeah.  
> 3) Yes, I do have another one planned.  
> 4) No, you are not allowed to judge me.  
> 5) You can, however, point out anywhere the tense gets weird. I tried writing in the present tense because I felt like it fit the vibe but I'm not used to writing in that tense.

They all wear masks in the arena.

His is not one that he wanted to wear again, but it is the only one he could think of. Atreus had been the creative one. He would have come up with something better.

But he isn’t there. So Kratos wears the name of the _Ghost of Sparta_ once again, though many shorten it to _the Ghost._ That is easier to hear, though not much.

No one seems to recognize it. He thinks at first that he’s finally faded into obscurity; that maybe, finally, he has been forgotten. Then, he is confronted by one of the other competitors.

“Okay, I’ve been dying to know.” The one called Ashwin Narita—Ace, though he insists on being called Ashwin—looks up from the shotgun he’s loading. “Ghost of Sparta, is that like the myth? You know…former mortal turned god of war, killed all the Greek gods?”

He says it without judgment, just curiosity. That doesn’t stop Kratos’s stomach from twisting itself into knots. “…yes,” he says finally, because lying wouldn’t serve any purpose. The man—the being who was once a man, he supposes—isn’t asking if he _is_ the Ghost of Sparta. Only if he _named himself_ for the Ghost of Sparta. There’s a difference.

“Huh. Neat. Rock on.” Ashwin gives Kratos’s arm a very light punch as he walks past to check the window. Kratos wants to lean away, but it’s the first friendly gesture he’s received in a long time. “Thought I was the only one in this dump who appreciates the classics. Hope I don’t have to kill you any time soon.”

There’s a grim smile in his voice but none on his face, because he doesn’t have a face left. The blue light that makes up where his face should have been conveys nothing, aside from occasionally dimming or flickering when he’s in distress. Kratos thinks back to when Freya brought back Mimir. At the time, the strange arcane metals she’d affixed to the head had seemed cruel—almost enough to make him reconsider the resurrection.

Now, watching Ashwin peer out the window, Kratos thinks she was merciful. At least she had left Mimir his face.

_[He asks later, because it can’t hurt to have a few allies …what about Ace? What does that mean? Ashwin ducks his head. “Family name,” he says, his voice bittersweet. Kratos does not ask again.]_

War is still the same; its particulars, however, change rapidly. As humanity grows, so does their creativity with its tools. He might be the god of war, but Kratos still finds it difficult to keep up.

Fortunately—if humorously—Bangalore assumes everyone in the arena is less educated than her.

_Remember, Hemlock fires in bursts. One to break the shield, one to break the man._

_Try to find a triple take if you can. Less projectile drop, might suit you better._

_Flatline hits harder, but the 301’s easier to control. Your choice._

There was a time when he would have been offended, but he’s learned to swallow his pride by now. Besides, the information is useful, and she is a competent fighter. Easy to work with. In many ways, she reminds him of the Spartan warriors he once fought beside. It reminds him of better times—of being mortal.

He tries not to believe in omens, not these days. But it still feels like a good one when her name appears next to his.

_[“We could’ve used a guy like you in the IMC.”_

_He thinks of Atreus and says nothing.]_

The one called Bloodhound speaks often of the all-father.

The old fuck would love that if he were still alive.

Kratos grits his teeth and gives the tracker a wide berth. He may have tempered his rage, put the gods behind him, but he’s heard enough of the Aesir to last several lifetimes. Besides, there are strict rules against fighting other competitors outside of the arena.

And there’s no sense in making more enemies.

_[Ravens appear in the arena when there should be none. The tracker’s eyes seem to follow him more closely. Kratos catches himself looking over his shoulder more often. Wondering if he’d really been able to escape the eyes of Asgard.]_

There is no honor in the arena—no _true_ honor. He knows this. He has numbed himself to it. But some competitors have less honor than others.

He distrusts the scientist from the second he lays eyes on him. Kratos has seen cruelty before—he has _been_ cruel before. The man hides his behind the language of science, but...no, he is cruel.

To make matters worse, he keeps _talking_.

“You’re efficient, but your kills lack refinement. Perhaps…”

Kratos growls. He tries to walk away, but they are on the same team. He cannot go far without the man following. “It was merely a suggestion,” Caustic says, as casually as if he were suggesting a meal in the dining hall. “No need to be _emotional._ ”

“Keep your advice to yourself. I know more of killing than you ever could.” Lifetimes of it. Eons. _I’m the fucking god of war._ “I don’t need you...”

Their third pipes up over the communicator: “Uh, hey, guys, I’m increasingly uncomfortable with the energy we’re creating on this team, so can we maybe save this for later and focus on not dying? Please? Thank you.”

Kratos bites his tongue. Fortunately, the scientist does as well.

Perhaps, he thinks, Caustic will find himself at the end of Kratos’s blade in the next match.

He refuses to dwell on the thought any longer.

_[“I don’t think a man of your bearing has any right to act superior.”_

_He is right, though Kratos will never admit it.]_

He knows a fugitive when he sees one. A life of hiding, of keeping yourself closed off from everyone and everything…he knows it. He’s living it now.

Crypto lives it now. Kratos isn’t even sure his name is Hyeon Kim. He’d bet money on it, if he were the gambling sort. But he isn’t, and it’s none of his business anyway.

He also knows what loss feels like—how it sits on the shoulders, in the eyes. Crypto wears that, too. It smolders like coals when he looks at the banners around the arena—when the Syndicate’s officials deign to show themselves.

Kratos says nothing. But he takes note of it.

_[“Forever family.”_

_He just barely hears it under the chatter of whatever the others were discussing. He hears the sorrow in it, the bitterness. He makes note of that as well.]_

They may have been putting on a show for others, but the grim misery of war still taints their every step, haunting them the way real war does. True mirth, true joy, is hard to find.

Makoa Gibraltar has that joy. Even marred by sadness, it _shines like the sun_.

It reminds Kratos of old days too. Of a long-dead soldier, and of the boy named for him.

The man’s presence is both a comfort and a painful reminder.

_[He thinks, sometimes, of asking Gibraltar for aid. If anyone could help him, it’s the man that seems to hold the respect of many in the competition. He refrains, but the thought lingers.]_

It makes sense to him that the healer’s hands are some of the most deadly.

Lifeline—Ajay Che—reminds him of Faye in that regard. Eager to help, but still deadly. Resolute and no-nonsense, but without losing her sense of humor.

Atreus would like her, he thinks, though he tries not to dwell on the thought for too long.

_[“What, you get stabbed by a Ronin?” she asks, her sharp eyes tracing the scar on his stomach as she tends to a different wound._

_He shakes his head. “It’s an old wound. Doesn’t matter.”_

_She looks skeptical, but doesn’t ask about it again.]_

He is sure some of the woman’s confidence is earned—she fights well, and there are many who whisper the name _Loba Andrade_ as if it were an ill omen. Sometimes he thinks she is a bit too sure of herself, but it does not harm him if she does. Such overconfidence is, in mortals, harmless.

Had she been like he was once—like he is now—he would be more concerned.

_[She catches him once staring at her cane. She doesn’t ask questions—only move it out of his sight, as if afraid he might try to take it. She’s watched him more carefully since. He isn’t sure how to explain that he’d been thinking of his son.]_

Atreus had spent weeks carefully gathering and assembling the components needed to make himself invisible, to create illusions of himself. He had been so proud when he figured it out.

It is strange to see that same ability in the hands of someone like Elliott Witt.

The man could not be more different from Atreus. He has an utter lack of confidence that he covers up with banter, false mirth aimed for himself, as if self-flagellation could truly serve as a shield against others harming him. He is a capable fighter, but absolutely insufferable to have on team, because he _never_ shuts up.

Kratos quickly decides he prefers the man as a bartender. At least at his bar, the chatter is a welcome accompaniment to the alcohol. Both serve to fill the empty spaces in his mind. To distract him when the arena cannot.

It is a strange reprieve, and if he had been told a few years ago that he would be spending a lot of time at a place called the _Paradise Lounge,_ he would have called that person a fool.

These truly are strange times.

_[“You just didn’t strike me as a wine guy. That’s on me for having, uh...preconc...pre…for judging a book by its cover.” Witt sets down the glass and grins brightly. “Nice to see someone not dedicated to proving they’re manly by drinking endless horse piss.”_

_The wine is nothing like the drinks he remembers from Greece, but it’s still good.]_

Languages have changed over time—his own native Greek evolving over the years, the languages of Midgard he learned from Faye and Arteus shifting as well. It was difficult enough to keep up with those changes; learning something new feels too daunting.

Sometimes he wishes he had it in him to learn. At the very least, it would help him know what Octavio Silva is saying.

He might have been able to guess at it if he spoke more slowly, but he is called _Octane_ for a reason. He does _nothing_ slowly, including speak. Even his English is too fast for Kratos to follow. Most conversations go about the same:

“ _Heycompadres, shittonofheavyammohere!”_

 _“_ What?”

“ _Heavy ammo_. Your coms broken or something?”

Kratos considers telling him to slow down more than once, but refrains. He knows there’s no use.

_[Octane does teach the room at large, Kratos included, some profanities in his native Spanish during one flight to the arena. Kratos isn’t sure how many he will remember, but it’s entertaining nonetheless.]_

Pathfinder declares them friends after one match.

The fact that Pathfinder calls _everyone_ his friend is the only thing that keeps Kratos from panicking at the declaration.

He has no time for friends—not in the traditional sense. But Pathfinder’s version, where there are no real obligations besides politeness outside of the arena and fair combat inside it, suits him fine.

_[Sindri would be fascinated by Pathfinder. Kratos never thought he’d miss the damn dwarf so much.]_

Ramya Parekh is brash, loud, crude, and very good with weaponry.

It feels as if Brok’s ghost has come back to haunt him.

 _Haunt_ is perhaps the wrong word. While the resemblance is, at first, a bit painful, he finds it strangely comforting after a time. The differences between the two—age, species, Parekh being _somewhat_ less crude and more good-tempered—help.

She lets him hang around her shop at the back of Witt’s bar, so long as he occasionally buys her alcohol and compliments her work. It’s less difficult than one might think. He might not know much about the creation of these new weapons, but he knows good work when he sees it.

_[“You ever thought about getting an upgrade?”_

_“I don’t plan on using another weapon once I’m done here.”_

_She laughs. “Sorry to tell you, mate, but you picked the wrong system for that.”_

_He knows.]_

His first meeting with Revenant is at the end of the simulacrum’s gun. Their relationship has not improved since.

It doesn’t help that Revenant has a talent for honing in on weaknesses, real or perceived. He aims for Katros’s age first, then goes for every rumor that’s started spreading about Kratos. His alleged status as a mercenary, war criminal…Revenant’s insults poke and probe, trying to find a weak point.

Kratos tries not to show one. _Tries._ The façade drops when he is paired with Revenant and the girl, Paquette. She is capable, as always, but they still end up backed into a corner. Paquette is injured. He and Revenant are out of ammo.

He does what he has to.

Two squads later, he manages to return to their position with a med kit and news that there’s a clear path to the next ring. Paquette sees the blood on his hands, but says nothing; she is mostly grateful for the medical aid. Revenant says nothing as well…at first. The bastard waits until they’re alone after the match to speak.

“Shame they put a limit on you,” he says, his voice low and mocking. “You look like a man who knows how to make a massacre.”

Kratos says nothing. He tries to hide how his hands shake as he wipes the blood away.

Revenant still sees.

“Glad to know I’m not the only real killer here.”

Kratos wants to respond, but he does not know what will come out if he does.

His hands continue to shake.

_[“Do you have any idea what it’s like, doing this for hundreds of years?”_

_Kratos laughs. That seems to take the simulacrum off guard. “What?” Revenant demands._

_“You have no idea, draugr.”]_

Natalie Paquette hates him from the second she lays eyes on him.

He takes it to heart, until Gibraltar speaks to him. _Last few new guys before Rampart brought a lot of trouble with them. It’s nothing personal, brother. She’d be nervous no matter who you were._

He tries to believe that, but it’s difficult when she glares at him with a distrust he has only seen in the eyes of those who know his true nature.

Earning her trust would not help the situation, he knows—both because he does not plan to stay here forever, and because that kind of trust cannot truly be won. The best he can do is make himself as unthreatening as possible and hope she learns he means her no harm.

He shouldn’t care. Kratos knows he shouldn’t care. That he should close his heart to the anger he sees hiding behind that distrust.

He fears it is a losing battle, but he knows he must try.

_[Learning she has loss behind that anger does not help.]_

In his day, they called it magic.

Now they use words like _holotech_ and _faster than light travel_ and _phase shift_ and call it science.

The effects are more or less the same—sometimes more refined, but always familiar. When the one called Wraith slips from sight, he thinks of Brok and Sindri. When she whispers portents, he thinks of oracles in their shrines—Delphi, Dodona, Trophonius.

She would have been revered once.

Wraith is a quiet sort, reserved, with mistrusting blue eyes (familiar, almost). Kratos knows little of her, and he is sure this is by design.

But from what he does know, she would not find solace in being considered a seer.

_[She has lost a lot of blood when she grabs his arm and whispers that it wasn’t his fault. They take her away to see a doctor before he can ask what she means. By the time she is well again, he is too afraid to bring it up again.]_

He hears of Kuben Blisk in whispers long before he meets the man in person.

Actually seeing him after a match chills his blood in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Kratos is wary even before the man asks to speak to him alone, and more so once he does.

“You’re quite the heavy hitter,” Blisk notes. He’s set out two bottles of beer; Kratos refuses to touch his. “Very interesting fighting style.”

“Hmm.”

“Have we met before?”

“…no.”

“Never fought in the Frontier Wars?”

“ _No_.” His chest goes tight; he knows what’s coming, but desperately hopes that he’s wrong. “Why?”

“Some of the men from my old unit had a run-in with someone on the border…didn’t believe what they were telling me at first, how one man could plow through some of my best with his bare hands, but now that I’ve seen you…” Blisk leans back and raises an eyebrow. “Seems a bit more likely.”

Kratos focuses on his breathing.

“Though now that I think about it, he was younger than you. This gift of yours genetic?”

The chair’s arm rest cracks under Kratos’s grip.

That’s all the answer Blisk needs.

He doesn’t ask anything else—only smiles, drinks his beer, and says he looks forward to seeing Kratos in the ring again. _Got a lot of money riding on you, Ghost._

That wounds Kratos more deeply than more questions would have.

_[Where on the border, he wants to ask. How long ago. Did the stranger survive the encounter. Did he have red hair. What was his name._

_Kratos thinks about it, every day. He knows where Blisk spends his time, now that he’s back; it would be easy to find him, to **make** him talk._

_He tempers his anger—tells himself that men like Kuben Blisk don’t talk, that this is certainly a trap, that he needs to bide his time and earn his wins and continue searching for himself._

_But if Kuben Blisk had aimed to harm him, to burn himself into Kratos’s mind as deeply as the blades once burned themselves into his arms…he had succeeded.]_

**Author's Note:**

> Kratos: *sees wattson* is this a third daughter
> 
> Catch me on tumblr as screechthemighty crying about video games and how the passage of time isn't real anymore. Also, yes, the other one I have planned does explain what's up with Atreus.


End file.
